


I Like You As More Than An Asset

by fennecfawkes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Coulson Lives, Doing the Avengers' Dirty Work, Get Together, Love Exciting and New, Love Letters, M/M, Pheels, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So I’m assuming you’re the one who decided we should be given the valentines our fans sent us.” Clint sinks down next to Phil on the couch. “Why?”</p><p>Not my characters, et cetera, et cetera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like You As More Than An Asset

Phil Coulson knows this much to be true:

1\. He is the best-dressed man in Stark-now-Avengers Tower.  
2\. Nine months ago, he died for a full eight minutes, then was resurrected with the help of SHIELD technology and the thought that he never got the chance to tell Clint Barton how he felt.  
3\. He has spent the past nine months as the Avengers’ handler, giving him plenty of time to tell Clint how he feels.  
4\. He has not done so.  
5\. Today is Valentine’s Day, so today, he will.

“What’s eerie is the way JARVIS doesn’t even let me know you’re coming in anymore. It’s almost as though he assumes you’re already here.” Phil looks up at Clint, who’s just stormed into the living room on Phil’s floor of the Tower. Clint’s a bit flushed, as though he’s run all the way from SHIELD headquarters.  
  
“I assure you, Mr. Coulson, that is not the case,” JARVIS intones.  
  
“Duly noted, JARVIS,” says Phil. “What seems to be the problem, Barton?”  
  
“The problem is these.” Clint holds up several pieces of crumpled construction paper and reflective, rough-edged, index-sized cards. “You do all our dirty work—”  
  
“And with great joy,” says Phil dryly, trying not to look at the paper or cards, which have given him enough trouble already.  
  
“So I’m assuming you’re the one who decided we should be given the valentines our fans sent us.” Clint sinks down next to Phil on the couch. “Why?”  
  
“For one,” says Phil, “that’s not nearly everything you received. I had DUM-E scan them for hazardous substances, and once those ones were systematically destroyed, I assigned a junior agent to sift through them and remove the death threats, the hyper-specific personal insults, and anything that could be labeled pornographic.”  
  
“That didn’t really answer my question, Coulson.”  
  
“Some of you could use the ego boost, don’t you think?”  
  
“I guess.” Clint shrugs and leans back, holding a heart-shaped card out in front of him. Phil tries not to look at the unintentional flex of Clint’s arms. “I don’t know, it mostly just makes me a little sad, seeing these.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“The people who send them—I get it, they’re fans, but they’re also hoping to get something they’re never going to have, and they’re probably not going to give up on that, and it’s only going to leave them disappointed.” Clint’s brow is furrowed, and Phil’s heart, ever so pathetically, melts a bit at the other man’s sensitivity. “And it’s not like I can respond to them, you know? That’s just fueling the fire.”  
  
“I imagine that on some level, every one of these men and women know they’re not going to end up in a relationship with their Avenger of choice,” says Phil. “If they want to fantasize, let them fantasize.”  
  
“If I wanted to rob them of their fantasies, I’d add sleeves to my costume,” Clint says, and Phil can’t help laughing. Clint grins. “Actually, even then, I wouldn’t do that. It’s all about aerodynamics.”  
  
“I’m sure that’s exactly what it’s all about.”  
  
Clint puts down his valentines and leans back, propping his feet up on the table. He’s the only one Phil would ever allow to do that. “You know what I love, Coulson?”  
  
“Enlighten me,” says Phil, trying and failing to ignore the sudden dryness in his mouth.  
  
“I love that, even though it took about three and a half years, I’m one of the few who can proudly proclaim that they’ve made Phil Coulson laugh.” Clint pauses. “If you’d actually been dead and not just hidden—”  
  
“I was dead for a full eight minutes.”  
  
“If you’d actually been dead indefinitely rather than a full eight minutes,” Clint amends, “that’s what I would’ve said at your funeral, I think.”  
  
“You would’ve taken the opportunity at my funeral, the one day I’m meant to have the spotlight, to brag about your own sense of humor?”  
  
“You’re not surprised, are you?”  
  
“Not even a little.” Phil turns to look at Clint. No time like the present, he supposes. “How many of those valentines did you get through?”  
  
“I didn’t read very many,” says Clint. “Why?”  
  
“When you get a minute, check the bottom of the pile,” Phil says. Clint looks at Phil, studies him, really, and apparently what he sees is compelling enough that he’s off like a shot and, presumably, back up to his floor.  
  
Phil turns on the TV and insists to himself that butterflies in the stomach have no effect on an agent of his caliber.

. 

“Hey, Clint, did you see your—”  
  
“Can’t talk now, Steve,” Clint says, trying to sound apologetic as he passes Steve in the stairwell. He tears up to his floor and runs straight to the bedroom, where there’s an untidy stack of valentines at the foot of the bed. Clint knocks over the pile and picks up the envelope at the very bottom. It’s pale purple and addressed to Clint rather than Hawkeye. Clint carefully opens the envelope and pulls out the card.  
  
The drawing on the front of the card is clearly a Steve Rogers original, a cartoonish version of Phil—Coulson, Clint keeps telling himself, but it never sticks, at least not in his head, and he’s just grateful the only time he’s called Phil by his first name out loud was their first meeting after he turned out to be alive—clutching a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers. Clint feels his face redden and his heart rate speed up as he opens the card and reads the words inside.  
  
 _I’m not great with words. But I’ll try to be for you, because if anyone deserves it, it’s you._ _If you asked me exactly when my feelings changed toward you, I wouldn’t be able to provide a precise answer, because it’s been a process, a painful, aching process that I wouldn’t trade for anything. But sometimes, there have been moments that help solidify how I feel for you, moments when you take two marks down with one shot, moments when you tell me exactly why I won’t enjoy the beer I’m planning on ordering, moments when you flop down next to me on my couch and tell me that_ Hoarders _isn’t nearly as fascinating as I think it is._  
  
 _When I was dying, and possibly dead, all I could think was, “I know Clint will come out on the other side of this, and I just hope he knows how I feel.” Now it’s been something like ten months and I realize you still might not know. So, since it’s this horrible, Hallmark-designated holiday, and since Steve, bless him, has told me that Natasha’s ready to shank us both—because it seems you might reciprocate, improbable though it is—I figured it was probably time._  
  
 _I like you as more than an asset, Clint Barton. And I hope you’ll be mine._  
  
Clint blinks and watches as a tear splotches the neat black lettering. Then he smiles, and he laughs, and he leaps to his feet so he can run back where he belongs.

. 

Phil’s half-paying attention to _Hoarders_ , half-panicking when the door slides open and Clint rushes through. Phil doesn’t have time to ask if he read his card before Clint is on him, straddling his lap, kissing him breathless. Couch kissing has been one of Phil’s most treasured fantasies since the first time Clint interrupted Phil’s me time at the Tower, but in his mind’s eye, it never looked quite like this, Clint’s tongue tangled with his, Clint’s hands on either side of his hips, Clint’s quiet moans that sound a lot like “Phil.” Phil’s running his hands up and down Clint’s spine, finally taking the opportunity to admire his musculature by touch rather than sight, and he knows he’s saying Clint’s name in an oddly breathy tone whenever he gets the chance but he doesn’t care. Eventually—and Phil determines it has to have been a few solid minutes, judging from his relative exhaustion and the soreness of his lips—Clint pulls back slightly. He’s sweating and smiling and perfect.  
  
“You read the card, then,” says Phil.  
  
Clint smirks. “Still so cool.” He rubs his nose against Phil’s. “Yes, I read the card, and yes, I do reciprocate, and why is that improbable? You’re amazing.”  
  
“I don’t have any idea why you’d think that, Clint.”  
  
Clint takes both Phil's hands in his. He stands and pulls Phil to his feet, and Phil appreciates their nearly negligible height difference—Clint has him by half an inch, three quarters, tops—as Clint leans down ever so slightly to kiss him again.  
  
“I don’t even know where to start,” says Clint. “You’re confident. You’re a badass. You can kill a man in literally thousands of ways, but you usually don’t because you’re also fair and just and noble and other flowery, do-gooder words. You’re clever and you’re funny and you look shit hot in a suit, and I probably would’ve kissed you sooner if I had any less self-control, or if you wore those damn glasses any more often.” Phil struggles not to blush. “Oh, and you’re modest.” Clint grins, and Phil knows he’s failed in his struggle. “How could I not be in love with you?” Clint’s eyes go wide as he realizes what he’s said, and Phil grips Clint’s hands tighter before he can let go, then initiates a kiss of his own.  
  
“I wouldn’t have said what I did if I wasn’t already in love with you, Clint,” Phil says softly. “Now, I believe it’s what some people would call a holiday, and I happen to know you and I both have plans to watch _Spaceballs_ with the rest of our team while eating Bruce’s famed spaghetti and meatballs.”  
  
“Can we hold hands?” Clint asks, sounding hopeful as they turn toward the door. In reply, Phil interlaces their fingers. They get their fair share of shit when they reach the common room; Steve must’ve said something, otherwise Natasha wouldn’t have her camera ready to take a picture of their hands, and the Love Boat theme certainly wouldn’t be blaring over the speakers. But for once, this sort of playful mockery inspires something beyond annoyance or indifference in Phil. For once, it just makes him even happier. And call him an optimist, but he imagines that’ll set the tone for what’s to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! If you simply MUST know what the hyper-specific personal insults were, just ask.


End file.
